You Don't Know How It Feels
by Enlee
Summary: Amber is dead and Wilson won't talk to him, so House turns to the one person he knows will listen. House/Cuddy. The last chapter is now up. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Since the whole House/Cuddy/Wilson thing will be going in a new direction with Season 5, I've decided to go in a new direction and basically start all over again. This here is a House/Cuddy story that has nothing to do with the my other House/Cuddy stories. I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Lisa Cuddy sat at a front table in the coffee house, sipping the last of a vanilla cappuccino and reading through one of the fashion magazines she kept hidden in her handbag. The magazines were trash, but good trash, and a guilty indulgence that let her forget about the day-to-day trials, headaches, and challenges that came with running a prestigious hospital. She was damn good at her job and certainly deserved to unwind while looking at ridiculously expensive clothes she'd never wear in a million years.

A shadow suddenly loomed over the glossy pages, then flopped itself into the chair across from her. Cuddy looked up to see Gregory House smirking at her. His eyes were red, his clothes were rumpled beyond recognition, and he was three sheets to the wind.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with a small sigh.

"Sitting," he slurred.

Ever since the bus crash House had been withdrawing himself from the world more and more, drinking his pain away, refusing any offer of help. He didn't want help, he wanted Wilson, but the oncologist still refused to speak to him. House wasn't exactly taking the rejection of his best friend very well. She could almost see another bit of him unraveling right before her eyes. It was both disturbing and sad.

"You smell like a brewery," Cuddy remarked with a trace of disgust.

His smirk widened. "And you smell like FDS."

Another wave of stale booze rolled across the table. "Good God, how many beers did you have?"

"Not enough. I can still walk." His gaze fell on to her magazine. "High fashion," he sneered. "Anorexic bitches paid too much money to look all sweet and pretty; shelling out thousands of dollars for the privilege of wearing a piece of fucking fabric that will be out of style in two weeks. How superficial, even for a fashion victim like you. Or are you reading that shit because _Ms._ magazine was sold out?"

"House, go home."

"Can't. The bartender took my keys."

"Then take the-" she almost said 'bus' before catching herself in the nick of time. "Take a cab."

"I don't want to go home."

"Then don't. Go ahead and sleep here for all I care." She stuffed her magazine into her bag, pulled out a ten dollar bill and smacked it on the table. "Maybe they'll be nice enough to just mop around you after you pass out under the table."

Cuddy got up and stalked out to the street, making a beeline to her car, shaking with anger and disgust. House was a wreck and she couldn't have him seeing any more patients if he was going to keep on drinking himself into oblivion every night. Tomorrow, if he wasn't sleeping off his hangover, she was going to _demand_ he get some help or else he'd find himself changing soiled sheets all day every day.

She opened the car door and climbed inside.

Then nearly had a heart attack when her passenger door opened and a tall, drunk man with a cane made himself comfortable in her passenger seat.

"For Christ's sake, House, don't you ever that do that again!" She leaned into the steering wheel, catching her breath.

"Don't leave the door unlocked again and I won't."

"I'm taking you home," Cuddy said, sitting back up and starting the car.

"I don't want to go home."

"I'm taking you home."

"You can if you want; I'm not getting out of the car if you do."

"House, stop it! Do you hear me? Stop it!" she snapped. "You're going to shut up and I'm going to drive you home. Understand?"

"And I'm not getting out of the fucking car if you do. Do you understand _that_?"

The purring of the engine filled the car as they sat there glaring at each other. She had seen House drunk on more than a few occasions and he was usually nothing more than crankier, snarkier, and angrier at everything that happened to catch his attention. He wasn't belligerent and demanding when he drank. He wasn't argumentative. He usually just wanted to go straight home and be left alone to nurse his coming hangover. But not tonight. Her eyes locked with his and then she knew the reason why. He wasn't demanding _not_ to go home because he was drunk out of his mind and didn't know what he was doing. He knew exactly what he was doing and just happened to be drunk. He didn't want to go home because for some strange reason he just didn't want to spend the rest of the evening alone.

"We can sit here and argue until you run out of gas," House began tersely, "or you can endure my company for another hour or two and I'll be on my merry way."

Cuddy sank back into her seat, resigned to the fact that she was stuck with him for a little while longer. She couldn't drag him out of her car and didn't want to hurt his leg by having someone else do it. "Where do you want to go?"

"Wherever you're going."

"I'm going home."

"All the better."

She checked for oncoming traffic, then eased the car into the street. "How long are you going to stay?"

"Until I'm ready to leave."

"I'll call you a cab and you will leave when it gets there."

"Whatever."

The rest of the drive was silent, with House leaning back and closing his eyes against the dizzying flicker of the streetlights they passed, only opening them when the car slowed and pulled into the driveway. He didn't say a word as he followed her to front door. She held it open for him as he stepped inside. Cuddy flipped on the lights and he squinted against the sudden brightness, then stumbled to the couch.

"You got any beer?" he asked, still slurring his words.

"You're not getting another drink tonight."

"_Bitch_."

Ignoring him, she said, "I'll make you some coffee and call the cab."

"I just got here. I'm not ready to leave yet."

"House, what do you want?" Cuddy crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

"Right now I'd like that coffee, as long as you're in the mood to play dutiful _hausfrau_." The smirk was back. He was getting under her skin and obviously knew it. "Will you bake some cookies and make my lunch for tomorrow too, Mrs. Cleaver? If I'm really good and eat all my veggies can I have an ice cream cone with sprinkles?"

"I'll be right back." She waited until she was in the kitchen to roll her eyes. God, he was impossible. This was going to be a long night, she thought as she flipped on the coffee maker and resisted the urge to hurl the cup across the room. The warm, almost floral scent of the gourmet Kenyan blend soon filled the kitchen. It was relaxing, a welcome change from the godawful stale beer House seemed to have bathed in.

The largest cup she owned was filled to the brim. Carefully, she grasped the handle, trying not slosh the near-boiling liquid all over her hands and turned to the living room.

In the doorway she caught sight of him and gripped the handle of the cup so hard it was a wonder it didn't break off. Only his profile was visible, but that was more than enough. He was staring past the front door, nibbling on his thumbnail, and she could see everything: the guilt, the nervousness, the worry, the dread. Everything that had been consuming him since the bus crash.

"House?" she said quietly.

He turned to look at her at the sound of his name. Amazingly, his face went blank as if everything else was pushed aside. Everything he didn't want her to see, not yet. Maybe not ever.

She walked over and handed him the cup, then sank into the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. Grasping the cup like he was holding on for dear life, House took a generous slurp. "You're obviously too good for instant like the rest of us drones," he muttered, and took another gulp.

"I like it to have some flavor. How did you know I was at the coffee house?"

"I didn't. I happened to see you enjoying your overpriced super special flavored fucking coffee when I was walking by."

"Why don't you want to go home?"

No answer, just another gulp of coffee.

"Why not, House?"

"I…I just…need some company right now."

"Why?"

"I need something besides the pain in my leg to remind me that I'm alive," he answered flatly, not looking at her.

If Cuddy had been standing her legs would have buckled. The man in her living room was beyond miserable, suffering in a hell she couldn't imagine and didn't want to imagine. Yet it was something House was having to live with every hour of every day. All because of one ill-timed phone call.

He was at her home because he had no one else to turn to, and she had to wonder if she was his last resort.

"I'm glad you're here instead of another bar," she said, hoping it didn't sound as dumb to him as it did to her.

"You were holding my hand in the hospital," he remarked, sounding slightly mystified at the thought. "You were holding it when Wilson walked away."

"I'd hold it again. Have you talked to Wilson?"

House took another gulp of coffee and answered, "He won't talk to me. Have you talked to him?"

"Once or twice. He's been spending a lot of time with his family. You two need to talk to each other."

"That's not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"He's too busy wishing I had died instead of Amber."

Cuddy gasped. "House, how can you say that?"

"Because it's the truth."

"No, it's-"

"He's never going to forgive me. As far as he's concerned I killed her with my own hands."

"Wilson does not think that and you know it," she said sternly.

After a humorless chuckle, House said, "Sure, whatever you say. Tomorrow will be another glorious day filled with laughter and sunshine and puppies. Oh, and Amber will still be dead. Whether it was my fault or not won't matter anymore, right?"

"You tried your damndest to save her."

"It wasn't good enough, was it?" With shaking hands he set the cup down. It was still half-full, steam wafting over the rim. House sat back into the cushion and closed his eyes. "I really hate myself sometimes," he muttered thickly.

He was done for the night, out cold. There was no way of getting him into a cab now.

Looks you have an overnight guest, she thought.

Filled with the need to make sure he was going to be all right, she reached over and brushed the hair from his eyes. His haggard and scruffy face was truly calm for the first time that night. His clothes looked slept in anyway, sleeping in them one more night couldn't possibly wrinkle them anymore.

"Sweet dreams, House," she said softly.

She left one lamp on in the living room so he wouldn't be too confused and trip over the table if he happened to wake up. Before going to finish reading her magazines she took the two bottles of wine she had out of the kitchen and hid them in her bedroom closet.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of running water, then a door opening. Cuddy sat straight up, her blood pounding in her ears. Someone was in her house…where's the phone? Call the police! Wait…do burglars take the time to wash their hands? Of course not. Then she remembered.

House.

He had passed out on her couch.

He was still there, doing who knows what in her home.

She heard him cough, then his footsteps as he walked back down the hall. Lights from the front of the house spilled into the hallway. She didn't hear the TV and guessed that he might be in the kitchen. It was two in the morning. Who knows how long it had been since he had eaten anything. She got up, padded to the closet for a robe, then went to see what he was up to.

She was right, he was in the kitchen. House had evidently made himself at home; there was a pot of fresh coffee on and a crumb-covered plate in the sink. At the table were a steaming mug, a bottle of Vicodin, and a red-eyed and flushed House playing solitaire with the deck of cards she kept in the junk drawer.

"The taxi never showed up," he remarked coolly, never taking his eyes off the cards.

"I never called it," she replied, getting herself a glass of water, then joining him at the table.

"I didn't think so."

"It was easier to let you stay here and sleep it off."

"Your concern is so touching." The sneer in his voice made it sound like an accusation.

"Any migraines?" she asked. House had been susceptible to blinding migraines ever since the bus crash. She had seen them in action and they weren't pretty.

"Not lately. Where in your bedroom did you hide your alcohol?"

"What makes you think I have any alcohol?"

"You answered my question with a question. That tells me everything I need to know right there. And you don't want me drinking anything right now. That didn't stop me from snooping in your cabinets to see if you left anything behind. Besides, I spent the night here once before, remember? We had a glass or two of wine before and after I fucked you senseless."

"You always were a romantic," Cuddy said blithely. "It's a wonder why we never slept together again."

House grinned. "The wine is either in your bottom drawer or the closet. I'd say the closet. There are more nooks and crannies and corners to stuff them in there."

"Were you in my bedroom?"

"Not tonight, but I was two years ago. Do you still have the pink sheets?"

"No, I bought some new bedding last year. My sheets are now yellow."

"Still all frou-frou and girly, I'll bet."

Cuddy decided to take control of the conversation and get to the task at hand. "How's your head?"

"Mentally or physically?" House asked, setting aside the ace of diamonds.

"You were smashed this evening, House." Cuddy reached over and tilted his chin up. "Your eyes are still red." She felt his forehead. He flinched as if being given an electric shock. "You have a fever."

He scowled, then went back to his game. "It's a fever, a low grade fever, not the Ebola virus. I'll live."

"Are you going to get smashed every night now?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

"It's not."

"I still say it is."

"You need help, House."

"Help with _what_?" He looked up; his eyes were ice. "Just _what_ do I need help with, Cuddy? Do tell."

"You're an addict, you're depressed-"

"I know I'm an addict. I don't need any help figuring that one out, thank you very much. I know I'm depressed and miserable, so I don't need help with those either. I know I nearly killed myself trying to save Amber at the request of my best friend. I know my best friend still hates my guts anyway. I know my underlings could care less whether I live or die. I know my boss is beating a dead horse."

"You think no one cares about you, House?" Cuddy asked.

"I _know_ no one cares about me."

"I care about you."

He snorted and said, "Well, that just changes everything. All is right with the world now."

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers along the back of his hand. That time he didn't flinch, he just kept sorting through the deck.

"Such pretty, pretty words," he remarked. "I'm sure you believe each and every one of them."

Cuddy blinked. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Everybody lies, Cuddy. Even you."

"I meant each and every word I said," she declared. "That was no lie."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

Setting down a king, House glanced up and asked, "Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is, Doctor?"

"How much money?"

"I don't mean literal money. Do you really care about me?"

"Of course."

"A few pretty words aren't nearly enough to convince me. You have to prove it," he challenged.

"How?" she puzzled, taking a sip of her water and wondering just what House would demand of her.

"Let's see," House began as he finished up his game, gathered up the cards, shuffled, and began to deal himself a new game. "I need something and someone to remind myself that I still exist and still matter. You say you care."

"I do care."

"So you've said. Maybe someday I'll actually believe it. What I do believe in the here and the now is that you don't want me to get smashed every night."

"No, I don't. I can't you have doing that."

"I have to agree with you there." House glanced up and noted the look of surprise rippling across her features. "What to do…what to do…"

"What do you want, House?"

"I want to see if you really, truly care. You let me come over here every now and then, keep me company for a while, remind me that the world is a truly wonderful and snazzy place. Can you handle that?"

"House, I'm no psychiatrist."

"I don't need a psychiatrist. Right now I need someone to be with me."

"Isn't that what psychiatrists do?"

"No. They're not in the business to actually sit with you for an hour and care. They charge hundreds of dollars an hour to fuck with your mind. I can get that from any bum living in a dumpster for free. I need someone who isn't paid to pretend to care."

"All right. I guess I can see your side of it. Suppose I agree to this arrangement you're asking for," she began, already knowing she would have to agree to it…at least for a while. "What's in it for me?"

An ace was in his hands. House set aside and placed some matching number cards with it and chuckled at her question. "Good one, Doctor. When I'm over here I won't drink. Is that good enough for you?"

"Not just yet," she replied, tapping her nails against her glass of water. "How often do you want to come over?"

"As often as you'll let me in."

"There are times when both of us work several days straight. If we come to some sort of agreement on what you're asking, that's not going to change."

"I understand that. And I'm not asking it to." He set the queen of diamonds on the king of spades, then flipped the cards over to start shuffling through them again.

In a stern voice, she said, "If you're going to come over, you're not just going to sit on your ass and watch TV. You will talk to me."

House paused, the cards nearly spilling out his hands. "Talk about what?"

"Your problems. Your life. Whatever is on your mind. But you will talk to me. That's your admission price for coming over to my home."

"So you're agreeing to it?" He looked up and met her eyes.

"If you agree to my condition, yes, we can give it a try." Cuddy matched his gaze, ice blue against ice blue.

After a few beats, House said, "You're on. Can you handle me two nights in a row?"

"I believe I can."

"We'll see, won't we?"

"Yes, we will," she agreed. "I'll be here tomorrow night, Dr. House."

He gave her a crooked smile. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Cuddy."


	3. Chapter 3

He got there about 45 minutes after she had arrived home. When she opened the door he didn't bother to say "Hello", just stalked past her to the couch. After she padded over the chair and sat down in the overstuffed chair she looked him over. House still looked he had been dragged behind a tractor--rumpled clothes, hair sticking out in every direction, a beard no razor could cut, tired and sunken eyes.

House caught her staring and scowled. It wasn't like she could see right through him; House had long ago perfected the art of hiding behind the mask of pain and snarkiness. But he always seemed wary of someone seeing through his charade, as if someone knowing the real him was his worst nightmare.

"So what should we talk about, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy frowned and asked, "How much sleep did you get last night?"

"Plenty," he answered with a snort. "I had my pillow and blanky and teddy to cuddle with." He then rolled his eyes and gave her a pointed glance. "If that's the best you can do I might as well just leave right now and save us both the trouble."

House was right. She took a quiet moment to reprimand herself for asking a such a lame question. It was her demand that they talk, now she damn well better keep up her end of the bargain.

"Tick tock, Cuddy. If you're not going to let me catch up on my soaps then you better give me a reason to stay. Right now a bottle of bourbon would be better company, and it won't ask me stupid questions."

He was serious; he would walk right out the door and point his motorcycle to the nearest bar if she didn't give him a good reason to stay with her. But she couldn't think of anything else that didn't sound just as lame or lamer, and said, "Answer the question anyway. We have to start somewhere."

Thankfully he didn't make a move to get up. He just shrugged and answered, "I slept a few hours." His blasé tone told her that lack of sleep wasn't high on his list of worries.

"Did you go back to sleep after I went back to bed?"

"Nope. I played solitaire for another hour, then I called a cab and went home."

She knew he was telling the truth. The only signs of him when she woke up in the morning were his dirty dishes greeting her from the sink and deck of cards still on the table. At least he had taken the time to put the rubber band back around the cards.

"Aren't you tired?" she asked.

"Yeah, a little bit." He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. "You got any of that fancy coffee on?"

"I can put some on if you want."

"I want."

"Coming right up."

Cuddy got up and went to the kitchen. As she set about hunting down the coffee she was surprised to hear him limp in behind her, head straight for the junk drawer and pull out the cards.

Catching her raising an eyebrow in question, House responded, "I'm not drinking, and I'm not watching TV. You didn't say anything about _not_ playing solitaire."

No, she hadn't said anything about it and wasn't going to. They could still talk while he played cards like they had done last night. She turned back to the coffee maker.

A few minutes later she brought two giant mugs to the table. He accepted his with a grunt and went back to his game. She noted his concentration on the cards; he seemed remarkably alert for a man who had been totally smashed and caught maybe four whole hours of shuteye the night before. If he really was tired he was doing a pretty damn good job of keeping it at bay for the moment.

"You're used to not sleeping," she noted.

"I didn't become a doctor because of the regular hours they keep," House deadpanned, turning over a red jack.

"It's not because of the bus crash."

"It's not from being shot, having a heart attack, having a seizure, or because of my leg either."

"You're an insomniac."

"Your powers of deduction are amazing. Too bad your funbags tend to distract people from the fact that you actually have a brain."

"And too bad your smart mouth distracts people from the fact you actually have a conscience," Cuddy shot back.

A black ten was placed on the red jack. "The truth stings, doesn't it?" the diagnostician said coolly.

"Yes, it does." She took a sip of her too hot coffee and grimaced when it burnt her tongue.

"From your reaction I can only surmise that you've met more than your fair share of sexist pigs, both on and off the job."

"More than one jackass has accused me of sleeping my way to the top."

"Did you kick them in the nuts?"

"I wanted to. Believe me, I wanted to. My high school guidance counselor told me I wasn't college material. Nevermind the fact that I had straight A's. He was a misogynistic jerk who told me I wouldn't be able to handle anything tougher than secretarial school."

"Did you kick him in the nuts?"

"No," Cuddy answered with a sigh of regret. The guidance counselor's face suddenly came into focus--a fat, bespectacled creep with a pornstache who regarded women as second class citizens "I wish I had. I just told him where he could stuff his advice and left. After I got a full scholarship to Michigan I sent him a copy of my acceptance letter and note that read that just because he was a failure as a human being that didn't mean he had to drag everyone else down with him. After I graduated second in my class from med school I sent him a copy of my diploma and a note that read 'Not bad for a secretary'."

She could see House grinning, and she would have bet a weeks salary that in some perverse way he was proud of what she had just told him.

"What about when you became Dean of Medicine?"

"I most certainly would have, but he died not too long after I graduated med school."

"That's too bad," House said without a trace of sincerity, then took a huge gulp of his coffee. "There's nothing like rubbing a naysayer's nose in it, is there, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Living well is the best revenge. Exceeding all expectations can be even better." It was time get off the subject of her and get back on to the subject of him. "Let's talk about you for a while."

"What about me?"

"Are you lonely, House?"

He didn't even blink at the question and calmly put a red six on a black seven. "You could say that."

"Does it bother you that you're alone?"

"It has been bothering me more lately."

"Is that why you've been drinking too much?"

"One of the reasons."

Cuddy paused, and contemplated that statement as she looked at the man quietly playing cards and answering her questions. He hadn't become irritated with the intrusion into his privacy, at least not yet. House guarded his thoughts and feelings like a soldier guarding Fort Knox; it was only a matter of time before he changed the guard and shut down for the night. She would just have keep pressing on and maybe get him to name a few of his reasons to drink away the loneliness until then.

"How many reasons are there?"

"A lot."

"How many is that?"

"Too many and I'm not in the mood to list them all right now."

"Tell me one other reason. Just one more."

"I'm not sure if I want to."

"Why not?"

"Because they're all stupid, melodramatic reasons." His words were suddenly low and raspy, as though his throat had gone dry despite the giant mug of coffee.

"We had an agreement, House, remember?"

"You didn't say how long we had to talk and I don't want to talk about my reasons right now."

They hadn't been talking all that long; but with House any kind of conversation where he talks about what's bothering him can be considered a step in the right direction.

"Give me one more reason," Cuddy demanded. "One more reason and we can stop for the night. All right?"

"I want something to eat when we're finished."

"I'll make whatever you want," she promised. "Now tell me."

"It's not the loneliness so much as the fact that I know things have to change, but I don't know if it's too late to change them. I've said enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight."

"We don't have to."

"Good. I want some of that roast beef you have in there. Do you have any chips?"

"No chips. I can make some soup. How does that sound?"

"Fine." He looked up. Strangely, he was grinning again. "Has the wine been released from the closet yet?"

"Not yet," she answered. "If I put it back can I trust you not to sneak any?"

"I don't know. Can you, Dr. Cuddy?"

"We'll see," she said, then got up and dug out a can of soup from the cupboard. She was getting quite hungry, and put the soup on the stove while she made some sandwiches; two for him and one for herself.

He was still very guarded, but he had said more than she thought he would. They actually had a conversation. It was a start, and he would definitely be back.


	4. Chapter 4

A new case kept House tied up with his new team most of the day; a pre-teen girl who dreamed of being a supermodel was suffering from acute convulsions and hallucinations. More than once Cuddy saw him in the corridors barking orders at Kutner or sending Thirteen and Taub to round up the usual suspects and run a few tests while they were at it. A new mystery solve, another life to save. Maybe House would feel a little more alive by the time it was over.

She stopped by his office before leaving to go home and was treated to the sight of his feet on the desk and House bouncing a tennis ball off the walls.

"How's your patient?" she asked and watched him pick up two more tennis balls and juggle them as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Stable," he answered.

"Any more convulsions?"

"Nope."

"Hallucinations?"

"Nope."

"What caused the convulsions?"

"What do you think caused them, Dr. Cuddy?"

"She had no head trauma and she's not epileptic."

"You're right about those." Unable to concentrate with her talking to him, he stopped juggling and put the tennis balls back in his desk. "That's because America's Next Top Model wannabe down the hall overdosed on her mom's diet pills."

"Diet pills?" Cuddy gaped. "A twelve-year-old is taking diet pills?"

"She's eleven," House corrected, "and though she's rather athletic and doesn't understand the concept of muscle weighing more than fat, she seems to think she's about five pounds overweight and the biggest, fattest cow in the whole wide world."

"Good God, what is this world coming to?"

"It's not coming to anything. It's going to hell in a handbasket."

"How did you figure out it was diet pills?"

"Mom went to take one and discovered half of them were missing. It was a brand new package, it should be full, right? Unlike most people Mom can put two and two together and found the empty blister packs hidden under her daughter's mattress."

"Mom came clean? That's a first. See, House, not everybody lies."

"The daughter did, and there's plenty of room left for her in that handbasket."

"What about you and me?" Cuddy asked.

He looked up at his boss and noted her expectant expression. "You can come along if you want. I could use the company. But you don't have to if you don't want to."

"What about Wilson?"

"He has a one-way ticket upstairs and a butler waiting at the pearly gates. He certainly deserves it."

"Don't you?"

"No."

"What's waiting for you, House?"

"Nothing."

She bit her lip, then said, "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Concerned about his sudden change in mood, she carefully asked, "Do you want to come over tonight?"

_Please come over…you shouldn't be alone tonight…_

"Only if we don't talk about Wilson," House told her curtly. "If his name comes up I'm heading to the nearest bar and sleeping it off for the next two days. Understand?"

* * *

"You have a problem with authority," Cuddy said from the overstuffed chair.

"So you've noticed." House was sprawled across her couch, facing her, his bad leg stretched out to keep it from cramping. "What gave it away?"

"You have a problem with _my_ authority."

"Not necessarily. I have a problem with the fact that you spend more time alphabetizing files and assigning parking spaces than being a doctor."

"You don't think I'm a good doctor?"

"I didn't say that," House quickly replied. "All the bureaucratic bullshit that takes up most of your time keeps you from knowing what is really going on around you as far as patients go. Suits and ties and the bottom line are what really run that hospital, doctors treat patients on the side."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is, but I can hardly blame you for things being the way they are. The system was in place long before you came around. Money talks and twists and shouts, stuffed shirts drool over the number of zeroes on their bonus checks, and doctors whisper here and there about helping sick people. It's the way of the world."

"It's not all about money, House."

"If you really believe that, you're more delusional than I thought."

Cuddy decided to steer the conversation away from what she does, or doesn't do, at the hospital. "Why don't you wear the white coat?"

"I can't find the right shoes to go with it," he answered, sounding almost serious.

"Or is it because you see the white coat as another rule to break?"

"I see it as an ugly coat that I shouldn't have to wear, period."

"You go out of your way to break the rules," Cuddy noted as she watched him rub his bad thigh, then reach into his jacket pocket for his Vicodin. Like he had done a million times before, he popped the lid and tipped a pill into his mouth. It was almost mechanical, something he just did without stopping to think if he really needed that pill or not.

"That's what they're there for," he said, putting the Vicodin bottle back into his pocket.

"Rules are there for a reason, House."

"Rules get in my way. They keep my hands tied while my patient withers away."

"Rules protect the patient and the hospital."

"Meanwhile I have to jump through hoops to get my patient the proper treatment," he snorted. "Your fucking rules were created by a bunch of fat-assed pencil pushers who wouldn't last an hour doing what I do. They're not the ones who have narrow down the thousands of viruses or infections, they're not the ones up to their elbows in guts in the operating room, they're not the ones watching a five-year-old have a stroke or grandma puke up blood." His voice went up a few notches as his face turned red with the anger he had been trying to keep from taking over. "No, they're too busy finding ways to cut costs and patting each other on the back for charging seven bucks for an aspirin. So fuck them, fuck the rules, and fuck you for thinking the rules are there for _our_ benefit."

Cuddy remained calm, reminding herself that she wasn't the actual target of his frustration and resentment; she just happened to be in the room when it boiled over. House certainly had every reason to be angry, but she wasn't sure how long she could keep being his verbal punching bag. "I enforce the rules," she said quietly. "I don't live by them."

"Am I supposed to believe that?"

"You damn well should," she said, deciding right then and there to let him know whose side she was really on, even if it cut him down to the bone. "I let you bulldoze your way through my hospital day in and day out. I put up with the screaming matches, the lawsuits, the complaints, the drug use, all that and more because I know that's what it will take for your patient to leave the hospital through the front door and not the back. So fuck you if you think I just sit on my ass and file all day. If that's what you really think of me then get the hell out my home and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

"I'm not leaving," he said in a low voice, suddenly unable to look her in the eye.

"Then don't. But if all you're going to do is insult me and the work I do for that hospital-"

"I wasn't insulting you or the hospital," he said quickly, sitting up. "I was insulting the fat asses that see dollar signs every time a patient comes through the door. Don't think I've already forgotten the fact that you and only you were there with me when I woke up, because I haven't and I won't."


	5. Chapter 5

He continued to come over two or three times a week. A few times she was hung up at the hospital, unable to let him in. Thankfully he was understanding, or at least pretended to be. More than once she found him waiting in her driveway. He was still talking, though not saying much about Wilson or Amber. Once their names were brought up House would answer a question or two about them, then change the subject. But House was talking to her. The important things would come out eventually. One step at time.

But it was all taking its toll on House. He was still losing weight. He still wasn't sleeping. He was still drinking too much even if he wasn't drinking at her place. He couldn't take much more before he ended up collapsing at her feet.

"You're spending the night here," she declared, feeling his forehead. The fever was definitely on its way back.

"I'm fine, Mommy," he grumbled. "Can I go home now?"

"No. You're not going anywhere." She stood up. "I've got an air mattress. It will take just a minute to inflate and I'll get you some blankets. You're sleeping here."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I'm not arguing with you about this right now. End of discussion."

"Dammit, Cuddy, there's nothing wrong with me--"

"House, you're exhausted. I can't let you drive home like this. I might as well let you drive home while chugging a bottle of vodka. Either way you'll end up wrapping your motorcycle around a tree and killing yourself. Is that what you want?"

"I want to go home and sleep in my own bed. That's what I want," he said, though he made no move to get up and grab his jacket and his keys. Dark circles under his eyes made them look deep set, like they had sunk six inches into his head.

He's too tired to move, she thought, and snatched his jacket off the back of the sofa. His keys were in the pocket. Trotting off to find the air mattress, she called over her shoulder, "I'm setting it up in the study. Is that all right?"

"Whatever," he replied faintly, resigned.

Ten minutes later Cuddy led House to the study, then began to help him out of his clothes. She was there for him to lean on when he toed off his sneakers, then she took his shirts, draping them over her arm after he peeled them off. When it came time to take off his jeans, he suddenly hesitated, then turned away.

"Don't look," he said.

"Look at what?" Cuddy puzzled.

"The scar."

"House, I've seen it--"

"Don't look at it. I don't want you to see it."

"It's nothing I haven't seen--"

"I said I don't want you to see it," he all but spat, his words heavy with the pent-up resentment at his bum leg. "It's ugly and I don't want you looking at it. Don't look at me again until I'm under the covers. Understand? Or do I have to draw you a picture?"

Though still confused, Cuddy said, "Okay…okay. I'm not looking."

She turned away and listened to the rustle of the denim as he climbed out of the jeans, a tug on her arm as he fished his Vicodin out of his pocket, then the tap of the cane and uneven gate of his limp as he made his way to the air mattress. Some grunts and bones cracking as he carefully lowered himself down. More fabric rustling as the covers were thrown over his tall, thin frame.

"You okay, House?"

"Fine," he mumbled.

"Are you warm enough? Do you need another blanket or pillow?"

"What I need is some goddamn peace and quiet."

"All right," she said, reminding herself that his anger wasn't directly aimed at her as she flipped off the light. "I'm going to leave the door open. Call if you need anything."

Cuddy had taken two steps out the door when she heard him say, "I did everything I could to help her."

She paused and frowned into the study. "House?"

"I risked my life trying to save her, at his request. I did it for Wilson. Doesn't that mean anything to him?"

He was nothing but a vague lump in the dark study, features obscured by shadows, but she knew he was looking at her.

"It does, House. He may not appreciate it now, but he will later."

"He's still not talking to me."

"I hope we can change that in the near future," she replied quietly, then took his clothes to her bedroom and neatly folded them.

* * *

After slamming the alarm off there was still some noise. Not loud noise, but enough to make her take notice. It sounded like voices. Television voices. House was up and around, no doubt helping himself to anything within his reach. One bottle of wine was still stuffed in the back of her closet; she had been slowly going through them on the nights he didn't come over. The fragrant scent of her gourmet coffee wafted into the bedroom and she hoped like hell there was enough left over as she threw back the covers.

Cuddy shuffled to the kitchen and was pleased to see there was a nearly full pot waiting; apparently House hadn't been up for very long. Mindlessly she poured herself a huge mug and went to join him on the sofa to watch the morning news. One of the blankets she had brought him was draped over his legs. Covering the scar he didn't want her or anyone else to see.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked.

"In my bedroom," she answered after taking a healthy gulp of coffee, the caffeine awakening her nerve endings.

"I kind of need them."

"You don't need them _yet_." Cuddy didn't feel like getting up; she just wanted to sit for a few minutes and enjoy her coffee.

"I'll need them soon."

"Not yet."

"Unless you want me to show up at the hospital wearing this blanket as a toga-and believe me, I'll do it given half a chance-I suggest you take ten seconds of your precious time to bring me my clothes. But if you want to explain to your fat-assed pencil pushing big-wigs why I'm dressed like an extra from _Animal House_, that's your prerogative. Personally I'd love to be a fly on the wall during _that_ conversation."

Seven seconds later, Cuddy returned with his clothes and shoes. He glanced at his jeans, the blanket, then her.

"I'm not looking," Cuddy said, turning away, listening to rustling of the denim and waiting for the sound of the zipper before turning back around. She watched him pull his shirt on and noted that she could see his ribs pushing against his pale skin.

"You need a decent breakfast in you," she said, standing up.

House scowled and said, "I need to go home and shower. I'll grab something on the way."

"You need something to eat. Your shower can wait a little while longer."

"If I don't go home to shower and change now I'm going to be late." It sounded almost like an accusation. It also sounded like a challenge; he was challenging her authority again and waiting for her to call him out on it. He stood there in his wrinkled clothes and barefoot, waiting for her to say something.

"You have my permission to be late today," she replied quietly.

"Seriously?" House looked ready to fall over.

"Yes."

"_Seriously_?"

"Yes, now come on."

As he grabbed his coffee and followed her into the kitchen, he said, "Can I have Fruit Loops? I've been a good boy."

"You're having some real food," she said, ignoring his perpetual sarcasm as she opened the fridge. "How do eggs sound?"

"They sound like something birds lay and hatch baby birdies out of. Humans have been known to eat them, both eggs and birds."

"Do you eat eggs, House?"

"Sure."

"Okay, eggs it is. How do you like them?"

"Scrambled."

"Me, too."

The kitchen was quiet as she cracked five eggs into a bowl and whipped them into a gooey orange blur. It was poured into a frying pan and left to sit for a minute while she put some bread into the toaster.

"You're not tired of me yet," House said as she turned back to the eggs. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Should I be?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. Being close to House, both figuratively and literally, meant being burned a little by the constant friction around him. He didn't truly trust anyone and felt they always had a hidden motive for doing him a favor, even her. Whether they actually did or not hardly mattered; House always thought they did and that was enough for him. "This arrangement was your idea, remember?"

"An arrangement you didn't have to agree to," House pointed out.

"But I did. Is that a problem?"

"Not yet. However, you could have pulled my authorization for everything, ordered me back to rehab, or ignored me until I finally self-destructed. But you didn't. Instead you just welcomed an unhinged maniac like me into your humble _abode_ without a second thought."

"You wanted someone to listen to you, and that's what I'm doing. Now you're questioning why? You're never satisfied with anything, are you, House?"

"No, but there was a night when I more than satisfied you," he deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes and scooped the eggs onto two plates. Two pieces of toast were added and she brought the plates to the table. House immediately dug in without so much as a 'thank you', but she couldn't help but gloat inwardly. She sometimes made a sandwich for him on the nights he came over. He always ate every bite, and now he was well on his way to doing just that with breakfast. It made his lack of manners and etiquette worth it.

House took a break from the eggs and dunked a bit of toast into his coffee. "Will you make me breakfast everyday so I can be late everyday?"

"No."

"Hmph. You always take the fun out of everything."

He finished every bite and left the plate for her to wash.


	6. Chapter 6

"You look like you're feeling better," Cuddy noted as she sat in her overstuffed chair and tucked her feet underneath her.

"I suppose I am," House replied flatly, like he didn't really care one way or the other. He was staring up at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes. But he had regained some of the weight he had lost.

He still wouldn't talk about Wilson or Amber. Earlier she had asked him if he spoken to Wilson lately and he had replied with a very short and curt, "What do _you_ think?"

"I want you to start wearing the white coat," Cuddy announced.

"I'm not going to."

"House, it's not going to kill you."

"It's not going to kill you if I don't wear it. Would you wear bunny ears if that's what doctors wore? The coat is stupid and I'm not wearing it. It's just a symbol of overeducated yahoos who think they're smarter than everyone else."

"You don't think you're smarter than everyone else? Could've fooled me."

"I _know_ I'm smarter, therefore I don't have to wear a coat to prove it."

"People trust doctors, House," she said. "They trust that the people wearing the white coat will help them. Don't you want people to trust you?"

"No."

"So why did you become a doctor? If not help people, why did you bother to go to med school?"

"To get laid."

"Why did you become a doctor?" Cuddy asked again, honestly curious.

"To cure illnesses. To treat exotic diseases. To solve the mystery of why someone is sick. To put the pieces of the puzzle together. If people don't trust me…well, that's their problem, not mine. I don't care. Does that answer your question?"

His icy blue eyes met hers and Cuddy felt a shiver down her spine.

"It answers that one. Now tell me why you really don't wear the white coat."

House answered, "Because I'll still be a jackass. I'll still be a cripple. I'll still be an addict. Nothing about me is going to magically change if I put on the goddamned white coat or not. I'll be a crippled, addicted jackass in a ridiculous white fucking coat."

He sighed heavily and went back to staring at whatever he found so fascinating on the ceiling.

"You're right," Cuddy said.

He wasn't expecting that; Cuddy noticed his eyes blinking rapidly at her response.

"Forget I said anything about it," she finished.

"I already have," he said with a faint smirk and Cuddy had no doubt that he had already pushed the conversation out of his mind. He looked her up and down as if seeing her for the first time and asked, "Why do you always sit over there?"

"You don't like to be touched," she replied. The years spent working with House had made her feel like an anthropologist studying a textbook misanthrope; plenty of time to see him visibly recoil from the slightest friendly pat on the shoulder. "I sit over here so you can have some space and some room to stretch out your leg."

"I'm not going to storm out of here because you happen to brush your hand against mine." A faint smile curled on his mouth like he found the thought privately amusing.

Cuddy allowed herself a faint smile to match his and said, "And if I sat there next to you, you would be asking why I didn't give you some breathing room and sit in the chair. Sometimes I think you make up things to complain about just to have something to complain about, because that fits your view of humanity as a bunch of drooling imbeciles."

"Humans _are_ imbeciles, and I wasn't complaining about anything. I was just asking why you sit over there."

"I told you why."

"No, you told me an excuse. You didn't tell me the real reason. You can sit over here if you want to, Cuddy. I'm not going to bite…not unless you want me to."

"I'm fine over here, House."

"If you say so," he said with a dismissive wave his hand, his tone of voice telling her that he didn't believe a word she said.

"Do you want me to sit over there?"

"Not really."

"Okay, I won't."

"Good. You mind if I crash here tonight?"

It had been nearly a week since he had stayed overnight, and that's only because she made him. She hadn't expected him to ask if he could stay again.

"Are you feeling sick again?" she asked.

"No, just a little tired. I don't feel like driving home."

"All right, if that's what you want."

"I want a lot of things," he said, looking back up at the ceiling with a hint of sadness in his face and voice. "Right now I just want a nice place to crash for a while."

"If you want to crash here, House, all you have to do is say so. You're more than welcome to stay here if you want." Cuddy meant it. She'd rather have him wallowing in his sorrow with her than drinking his sorrow away at his apartment.

"Thanks," he muttered, then closed his eyes.

* * *

"Hey."

"House?" Cuddy fumbled for the lamp and switched it on.

House was standing in her bedroom, bare-chested, the extra blanket wrapped around his waist like he was wearing the bottom half of a toga.

"The air mattress has a leak," he announced stonily.

"A leak? Are you kidding?"

"No. It's turning to mush. I can't sleep on it."

Cuddy grumbled to herself. It was only the second time the damn thing had been used and she wasn't about to spend the next hour or so hunting down the repair kit and finding the leak. "So sleep on the couch."

"It's too narrow and not long enough. My leg will be screaming blue murder by morning, if I don't fall off the damn thing first," he replied, leaning on his cane.

"You slept on the couch before."

"No, I passed out on the couch for a few hours in a sitting position before. I spent the rest of the night sitting up while playing solitaire and drinking your coffee."

"You still slept on it."

"I never said I wanted to sleep there again."

"Can't you sleep on the floor for one night?"

"As long as you can overlook the fact that I won't be able to walk tomorrow if I do," House said. "The floor is too damn hard. I need something cushy yet supportive. I need an air mattress or a real mattress."

"House, for God's sake--"

"Cuddy, it's not like I gave you my kidney and asked for it back."

"Not yet," she muttered, sitting up. "Let's see if we can fix that stupid mattress."

"You can see to it all you want. I'll wait here while you do," he said, already walking over to the other side of the bed.

"House--"

"I just want to a few hours of sleep on the side of the bed that you don't use. Is that so horrible?" His accusatory tone cut through the late night like a scalpel through flesh.

"So lay down already!" she shouted, fed up with his incessant yakking. "Just lay down and shut the hell up!"

"Is that why you won't sit next to me when we talk, because my crippled leg might be contagious?"

Furious, staring daggers at him, she yelled, "House, will you just shut the fuck up! For once in your life, just shut up!"

He untangled the extra blanket from around his waist and climbed into her bed without another word. He faced away from her, leaving her to stare at the back of his head while she allowed herself a few minutes to calm down and clear her mind.

"House," she said shakily, resisting the urge to push him off the bed.

"What?"

"If you really think I don't sit with you because of your leg, you might as well not come over here ever again."

He was silent for nearly a full minute before he muttered, "I don't think that."

"Neither do I."

"I know."

"I'm glad to hear that. Good night."


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't a big surprise to see that he was gone when she slapped the alarm off and turned to the other side of the bed. The covers were still tossed back, but he had taken the time to pick the extra blanket off the floor and throw it haphazardly across her feet. No scent of coffee wafting through the air; he had probably just dressed and left.

She got up and shuffled down the hallway intent on enjoying a nice leisurely breakfast when her eyes were drawn to a strange blanket the study.

Except it wasn't a blanket. It was the air mattress, flat as a pancake.

"What the hell…?" Cuddy muttered, and stepped closer.

This wasn't the result of a leak. Someone had murdered the air mattress in cold blood.

Confirmation of this came when she saw the gaping two-inch hole slashed into the side of it.

Technically House wasn't lying when he said he couldn't sleep on the mattress last night. But he didn't bother to mention he had been the cause of its untimely demise. He had gone out of his way to make sure she didn't look at it, basically badgering her into letting him sleep in her bed. So he didn't have to sleep in the study.

Why?

He hadn't touched her. She had spent a good forty-five minutes listening to his breathing turn to low snoring before she had be been able to go back to sleep. They had slept with their backs to each other. They only things out of place were the covers on the other side and the extra blanket he had left there.

He didn't want to sleep alone. For some reason he just couldn't come out and say it. He probably felt she would have turned him down, and she basically had. So he had to trick his way into her bed, even if the reason was just to have a warm body next to his, and had inadvertently made her mad in the process. An innocent air mattress had to pay the price.

* * *

It was four days before he came by again. He asked to sleep over. He didn't ask if she had bought a new air mattress. She didn't bring up what happened to the old one.

He was off the next day, so she was a bit surprised that he didn't plan on spending his time off getting drunk at his apartment. She didn't bring that up either. Instead, after he asked if could crash there for the night after wolfing down the sandwich she had fixed, she just said, "If you want."

"I do. You can sit next to me here on the couch if you want."

"I'm fine over here," she said, not moving from the chair.

He stayed up to watch the news as she went to bed. She was half asleep by the time he came limping into the bedroom. She listened to the rustle of his clothes and the soft tink of his belt buckle, then felt the a tug on the blankets and the bed dip as he climbed into it.

He didn't touch her. He didn't say a word and soon he was asleep.

* * *

Cuddy felt warm. Warm and safe. She didn't want to get up. She wanted to sleep until noon, then spend the rest of the day doing nothing. But that wasn't going to happen. Too much work to do--stupefying meetings to attend, patients to see, files to keep in order. Ten more minutes before the alarm was set to go off; she decided not to have the early morning screeching give House an excuse to bitch and moan for the next week. She blindly reached for the clock, noticing that the blankets seemed much more solid and heavy than they were the night before.

Because the blankets weren't the only thing draped over her.

Sometime during the night House had spooned up behind her and draped his arm over her waist. Cuddy pondered the situation while he quietly snored away against her shoulder. House wasn't the type to cop a cheap feel on an unconscious woman…was he? No, he wasn't. Even if he was, he would have at least been smart enough to go back over to his side of the bed and maintain his innocence. The blankets were pulled up to her chest and her nightgown was still pulled down to her knees. He had just rolled over to her in his sleep, an accident, she thought as she lifted his arm and slid out of bed. She turned around and he was looking at her but not seeing her. His eyes were tired and puffy and glazed over. He hugged her pillow like a child hugging a teddy bear and fell back asleep in two seconds.

Cuddy stood there, musing at how comfortable he seemed to be in her bed and with her. So…she was slowly but surely earning his trust. How interesting. She smiled at the thought. He was obviously becoming more at ease around her so maybe he would open himself up a little more soon. She noted how calm he looked; for once his features weren't knitted up in a knot of pain or anger. For the moment he was utterly and completely relaxed. Unable to help herself, even though she knew she might wake him up again, Cuddy padded back over the bed and sat down. Gently she stroked his temple, smiling again when his head turned into her touch. His eyes open again, this time focusing on her.

"Are you going to stay here all day?" she asked.

"I might," he muttered, his words thick with sleepiness. "Is that a problem?"

"That depends. What are you planning on doing here?"

"Nothing."

"That's not an answer, House."

"I wanna sleep. It's my day off and I wanna sleep in. My insomnia decided to take the day off too." Judging from the way his words nearly stumbled over one another and his droopy eyes, he was telling the truth. "Is that all right with you?"

"You don't need my permission to get some rest," she said. "Not if that's all you want."

"I want another one of those sandwiches you made last night."

"I'll leave one for you in the fridge. Okay?"

"Okay."

She thought about the full bottle of wine still hidden in her closet. If he wanted to get drunk, he could do it in his own place. "The rules still apply when I'm not here, House."

He blinked. "What?"

"You don't drink when you're under my roof."

"I'd be at my place if I wanted to," he replied stonily with a strangely blank expression. "But you and your hidden booze stash already know that, right?"

Maybe, maybe not. But there was something else she wanted to know. "So why are you here and not at your apartment?"

"To catch up on my sleep, and because I like you." He grinned at the hitch in her breath, then glanced at the clock. "It doesn't look good if the big boss is late. You should get going."

"I am," she replied, trying not to sound too stunned as his words rang in her ears. "Be sure to lock the door if you decide to go home."

"'kay," he muttered, cuddling with her pillow as he drifted off again.

Even though she was going to be late, she sat there for a while longer watching him sleep.

* * *

"Wilson will be back tomorrow," Cuddy reminded him.

He was concentrating on his solitaire game so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye and possibly give away the fact that he missed his best friend and the good times they had.

"I'm aware of that," House replied. "He won't be able to avoid me at the hospital and will actually have to say 'hello'."

"You should tell him you're sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For what happened to Amber."

He placed a red queen on a black king and said, "That would be lying. Are you telling me to lie, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Don't you feel any guilt about what happened?"

"I'm sorry about what happened, but it happened. It could have happened to anyone. I'm not going to feel guilty about an accident."

"You should tell him anyway. You two need to talk to each other."

"I'm sure we will eventually. He'll be there tomorrow, right?"

One thing that always infuriated her about House was the way he kept his feelings bottled up inside. It was as if he purposely shut himself down emotionally; not allowing himself to feel anything so he wouldn't have to deal with his feelings at all.

"Do you always keep you and your emotions so blunted?" she asked.

"Only when my boss starts prying into something that's none of her business." He sighed heavily and overdramatically, then went right back to his game. "There's nothing I can do about it until tomorrow, so can we just drop it for now?"

The next day Wilson returned and handed in his resignation. House didn't come by her place again until Wilson's last day.

It didn't take long for all hell to break loose.


	8. Chapter 8

"What do you have there?" Cuddy asked as she looked at the paper sack House was holding.

"Booze," he answered nonchalantly, and he wasn't lying. He pulled out a bottle of scotch and some plastic cups.

"Scotch? You said you wouldn't drink when you were here!"

"So sue me. You want some?"

"House--"

"Wilson isn't coming back. I think I've earned the right to get smashed tonight," House said. "I figured you'd be proud of the fact that I chose to drink myself into a coma in your home and not in a bar. See, if I was at a bar I'd have to call someone to come get me, and we all know what happened the last time I did that, don't we?"

He poured himself a cup and downed it in three gulps, then wasted no time in pouring another.

"You two need to work things out," Cuddy said as she sat in the chair. "I don't want to lose him and neither do you."

"Too late; he's made up his mind," House said, frowning into his drink. "I should respect that, right? And so should you."

"I should, but I don't."

"Neither do I, but he's still leaving."

"He's your friend. Doesn't that--"

"He _was_ my friend. As a matter of fact he told me we were never friends to begin with. That I was the manipulator and he was the enabler. He's tired of cleaning up my messes and that's the real reason he's leaving." House's voice was flat and monotonous. He glanced over to see Cuddy's mouth agape. "But don't worry, he doesn't blame me for what happened to Amber. I guess that was to soften blow, as if he had kicked me in the nuts with a knife-tipped boot instead of taking a sledgehammer to my head and expected it to hurt less. But hey, it's the thought that counts. I'm such a lucky guy to have a friend like that. Oh wait….we were never friends." A creepy dull laugh escaped his throat. "My mistake. I'm the reason he's gone and never coming back. With friends like me who needs enemies?"

The misery on his face told her more than his words did, but she asked anyway. "Did he really say you were never friends?"

"Oh yeah. He said it right to my face and left me standing there in his empty office." Another wave of anguish rushed across his features. He was miserable, more miserable than his leg could ever make him.

"I'm sorry, House," Cuddy said quietly.

"Don't feel sorry for me."

"I'm going to anyway."

"Don't be sorry for something that isn't your fault, Cuddy," he said, his voice now had a hint of iciness to it. "That's exactly why Wilson doesn't want to be around me anymore."

"I'm sorry--"

"What did I just say?" House snapped at her, his words loud and clear and echoing through the living room. "This is not your fault and _do not _feel sorry for me. Save it for Cameron, or a terminal patient, or a lost kitten. Don't waste it on me."

She gave House a few moments to cool off before asking, "What do you want from me, House?"

"I don't want your pity." He sat back and resumed his strange habit of staring at the ceiling.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to sit over here with me."

Cuddy blinked, not sure if she heard him right. "What?"

"Sit over here with me. That's what I want."

"That's all?"

"For now." It was only when he sat back up and looked at her did she notice that his eyes were red. He was staring at the ceiling because he was trying to keep his emotions in check and not have a breakdown in front of her. "You'll let me sleep in the same bed but you won't sit next to me. Even Ray Charles could see how strange that is."

"Ray Charles is dead."

"And he's still blind. Sit with me, Cuddy, or am I finally asking for too much?"

"You're not."

She got up, her high heels whispering against the carpet as she walked over to the sofa and sank into the middle cushion.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it. Why he was so thankful for it was still a mystery.

"Is there anything else you want from me?"

"Not yet. I'm sure I'll think of something."

"House," she began carefully, "you do know that I'm your friend too."

"If you say so." He was staring at the ceiling again, barely keeping himself together. "How did you feel when you found out I was going to be all right after the cracked skull?"

"Relieved. Happy and relieved."

"Did you tell Wilson?"

"Yes, I called and told him."

"What did he say?"

The answer wasn't what House wanted to hear. She didn't want to be the one to break it to him. She hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated again.

"What did he say?" House repeated.

"He didn't really say anything," Cuddy replied as if confessing a sin. "He thanked me for calling and hung up."

"I see."

"He was grieving over Amber, I'm sure--"

"Did he ever call to see how I was doing?"

"No."

"Did you ever see him visit me?"

"No, he was on leave. He wanted some space. He told me he would call if he needed anything."

"Funny, he didn't tell me that. He just told me to leave him the hell alone."

House didn't sound like he was falling apart, or broken, or in pain. He sounded like he had given up, and that somehow sounded worse to Cuddy's ears. He wasn't going to break, of course he wasn't; he was going to keep it all inside like he always did. Gregory House didn't cry, or breakdown, or allow himself feel anything like grief. If his best friend turned his back on him, that was just the way it goes. Too bad. Shit happens. Life goes on. Weeks later he would turn around and take an innocent comment the wrong way and snap at the wrong person for the wrong reasons.

She wasn't going to let him keep it all bottle up inside. Not tonight. Tonight he deserved to let his emotions run rampant. He needed to scream and cry and yell and sob, even if it killed them both. She would listen. She would cry with him. She would be the one to take whatever he threw. But she wasn't going to just sit there and let him stare at the goddamn ceiling all night while he stewed in his pent-up emotions.

Cuddy cleared her throat and said, "House, you said Wilson left you just standing in his office."

"Yeah."

"Did you say anything to him when he left?"

"No." House drained his drink and poured another one.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No, he just kept walking down the corridor and didn't look back."

"He didn't even say goodbye?"

"No, I just told you he didn't say anything. The son of a bitch didn't say a damn thing when he walked out the door."

More anger was rising up in him. It was good thing. He needed to let his anger out. She was going to make him let it out. "How did you feel when he did that?"

"He's right, you know," House said as if he hadn't heard her.

She frowned. "Right about what?"

"I'm not a nice person to be around," House told her before pausing to take another gulp of his scotch. "Stacy's gone…now Wilson's gone. It's only a matter of time before you open your eyes and get the hell out of my life before I fuck it all up too."

"I'm not--"

"I'm the opposite of King Midas. Everything I touch turns to shit."

"Stop--"

"I should leave. You shouldn't be around me anymore. If I stay any longer I'll just end up ruining your life." House stood up and patted his pockets for his keys. "I'll go to the bar after all. Maybe I'll get creamed by a bus on the way. Wouldn't _that _be ironic…Wilson would throw a fucking parade--"

"House, stop it!" Cuddy broke in. "You're not going anywhere, now just sit back down."

"I'm leaving."

"No!"

She shoved him back down on the sofa, then snatched his cane right out of his hand.

He gaped at her, then snarled, "You fucking bitch."

"You better believe it," she snarled right back at him, taking a few steps back until she was out of his reach. "Answer my question. How did you feel when Wilson walked away?"

"Go fuck yourself," he said while trying to get back up.

Cuddy stepped forward and pushed him right back down again. "House," she spoke in a low, serious tone, "if you try to get up again, I'm going to hit you across your right thigh with this cane."

His blue eyes went from her to the cane and back again. "You wouldn't dare."

"You think I'm kidding? Try me."


	9. Chapter 9

"Don't you think I'm in enough pain already?" he asked, though it didn't sound like he really wanted an answer.

He _was_ in pain, anguish, turmoil. He had been for a very long time. But if she had to whack him across the leg to keep him from leaving, then so be it. Better he be in pain and safe in her home than numb and splattered across the road.

"House, you are not leaving."

"For fuck's sake, Cuddy, what the hell do you want me to do? Sit here and cry like a baby?"

"Yes."

He blinked, then he blinked again. "You don't want me to drink…but you want me to _cry_?"

"Your best friend walked out on you, House." She sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, making sure the cane was still out of his reach. "You have every right to be upset."

"Do I?" he sneered. "It's nice to know I have your permission."

"You can't keep your anger bottled up like this. You need to let it out."

"What I need is to leave and get hammered." He went to stand up…only to pause when Cuddy lifted the cane, threatening to bring it down hard across his lap. She was one second away from doing just that when he realized she was serious and settled back on to the cushions.

"He left you standing there," Cuddy told him. "He said you were never friends. After all these years he just takes everything you had together and throws it in the trash. I know you're angry and I'm telling you have every right to express it."

Looking away, House replied, "I don't need your goddamn pity."

"I'm not giving it to you. Let me have yours. Let me have all your pity and anger and frustration and sorrow and resentment. I'll take it, House."

"No."

"You're angry, House. Now tell me how angry you are."

"No." His eyes were closed. He was barely hanging on.

_Tell me something. Anything._

"Your best friend abandons you and you have nothing to say about it?"

"We were never friends."

"You _were_ friends!" Cuddy was practically shouting at him. "You had fun together. I saw that myself. He confided in you and you confided in him. He went to you when he found out Julie was cheating on him. Is that not what friends do for each other?"

"I was the manipulator and he was the enabler. He waited until the last second to tell me that because he was protecting me and my blunted feelings. That was the least he could do."

"He was your friend, House. If you can't be angry at him then be angry at me."

"No." A single tear slowly trickled down his haggard face.

_Be angry with me, House. Please feel something._

"You have to do something about what you're feeling, House. You can't hold it in forever."

"I don't have to do jack shit."

_Please let your feelings out, House. For once in your life let your feelings out…_

Begging him wasn't working. It was time to try a different approach, something House could relate to. "Fine. Just sit there on your sorry ass," Cuddy spat. "That's all you do, anyway."

"I will."

"Be my guest."

"It's nice to know I have your permission for that, too."

"You do."

"Thanks."

"You're quite welcome. Sit there and drink the whole damn bottle. Maybe by tomorrow you'll forget you ever had any friends at all."

"If you insist." House reached for his still half-full cup and drank the rest.

"Maybe Wilson had a reason to walk away from you after all," she said. "He probably got tired of seeing you drink your troubles away."

"He was the enabler," he reminded her as he poured yet another drink. "He never stopped me from drinking."

"Because he was too polite to say how pathetic you are."

"He was."

"But I'm not. You're pathetic, House. Absolutely pathetic. Tomorrow I'll call Wilson up and tell him exactly what went on here tonight. I'm sure he'll have a good laugh about it and--"

She was cut off in mid-sentence when House used his good leg to push the coffee table over, sending the bottle of scotch tumbling onto the carpet. She could hear it faintly gurgling and spilling in the otherwise new silence; House's now fierce blue eyes cut across the room and into her. After a few moments she realized she was gasping for breath as his chest was heaving up and down, gulping large chunks of air as if he had just broken the surface of a lake after being pulled under.

"Is that angry enough for you?" he managed to say. "Or was that just one of the many pathetic actions of a pathetic, friendless cripple?"

"House, I--"

"You want angry? Oh…I'll show you angry." With a sweep of his arm the lamp crashed to the floor, followed by the table it had been sitting on. The bulb flashed on and off like a strobe light several times before sputtering out, leaving the room an ashen grey.

House stood up and made his way to the bookcase. "This is what happens when my best friend abandons me!" Books and knick-knacks flew through the air. The sound of something shattering to pieces flew through the air after them. "This is exactly how I feel! Is this what you wanted, Cuddy? Is this enough emotion for you?"

"House, please," she cried. "I just wanted--"

"You just wanted to see me cry. You…you got your wish…you got your wish," he stammered out as a sob filled with all the anguish and grief he could possibly have clawed its way out from the very core of his being. Tears streaked down his red face. "Damn you, Cuddy. Damn you to hell. Damn you to _fucking hell_!"

He was moving again, moving faster than Cuddy had ever seen him. At first she thought he was going for the front door and moved to block his way. Instead he turned down the hall and stumbled into the bathroom, closing and locking the door before she could catch up to him.

_Oh God, what have I done?_

"House!" she called, her heart breaking as she heard his sobs continue on the other side of the door. "House, please open the door."

No answer, just the awful sound of his crying.

"House!"

The unmistakable sound of glass shattering on the other side of the bathroom door. The mirror. He must have smashed the mirror.

"_House_!"

"Leave me alone." His voice was muffled and weak and wracked with shame.

"House, let me in. Please let me in."

_Please don't let him be hurting himself in there…_

"Go away."

"Please open the door."

"_Just leave me the fuck alone_!"

"House…Gregory…let me in," she cried, pounding and pounding on the door.

The door remained locked, with House crying on one side and Cuddy crying on the other. This wasn't supposed to have happened. He was supposed to lash out at her, yell and scream at her. He was supposed to open up to her. He was supposed to trust her and be able to express what he was feeling, not have an utter and complete breakdown and lock himself in a room with broken shards of a mirror that he could easily dig into the soft, thin skin of his wrists…

More pounding. More crying from the bathroom. The door remained locked.

She had to get the door open somehow. Breaking it down was out of the question; she'd end up breaking her shoulder first.

_It's just a simple lock. You should be able to open it like the flimsy locks back home. No privacy back then since all it took was nail file and five seconds to pick the damn thing…_

A minute later Cuddy was digging her nail file into the doorknob when there was the distinct snap of the lock releasing. She turned the knob and carefully pushed the door open, expecting it to be slammed right back in her face. It wasn't, it just slowly swung open and only stopped with a faint thump when it hit the wall. She had been right about the mirror: there was a softball-sized hole punched in the middle of it. The sink was littered with shards and the floor sparkled with them. Drops of blood were also scattered along the floor with the remains of the mirror.

House was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his head in his hands, slowly rocking back and forth. The knuckles of his right hand were gashed open, blood freely dripping on the floor and running down his arm, into his sleeve.

"House?" Cuddy said quietly as she stepped into the bathroom, pieces of the broken mirror crunching under her shoes. "House, my God, your hand…"

She was standing over him now. He hadn't looked up. He didn't acknowledge the fact that she had picked the lock. She wasn't sure if he even realized she was in the same room with him.

Gently she pushed his hands away from his face, then cupped his chin her hands and tilted his head up. His eyes were red-streaked and bleary and vacant. He was looking right through her, perhaps seeing better times in the past or what his life had become in the here and now. Her mouth opened to tell him everything was going to be fine, to tell him that she was there for him. But he wasn't listening and wouldn't listen anyway. When his eyes finally focused back on her, Cuddy kept quiet and gently tugged on his arm, encouraging him to stand up. Surprisingly he did without any kind of protest or resistance and allowed himself to be led to the kitchen where she sat him in a chair and proceeded to tend to his wounded hand. It wasn't as bad as it looked and soon it was cleaned and bandaged. House didn't say a word, just stared at what she was doing without really seeing it. He only grunted a bit when the peroxide bubbled in the gashes on his hand. She helped him take off his long-sleeved shirt and cleaned the sticky blood streaks that ran up to his elbow with some wet paper towels.

She tugged on his arm again. "Come on, you should lay down."

He didn't move from the chair, just looked up and let her see the despair behind his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

She brought him his cane and he let her lead him to the bedroom, but he wouldn't let her touch him once he sat on the bed. "_Don't_," he muttered, pushing her hands away when she reached over to help him out of his shirt. She reached again and he pushed her away with a bit more force than necessary to make his point. Giving up, Cuddy took a step back and watched him dry-swallow a Vicodin, then lift his bad leg on the bed and flop back onto the pillows. Still in his tee-shirt, jeans and sneakers, he turned away so his back was facing her and mumbled, "Leave me alone."

_Like hell I am._

"I'm not leaving you, House." She kicked off her shoes then walked around and climbed into the other side of the bed and stretched out beside him.

"You shouldn't be around me." His voice was raw and strained.

"Too late. I'm already around you. I've been around you for years. A few more minutes won't matter."

"You're making a mistake."

"It's my mistake to make," she said, reaching over and taking his bandaged hand. He didn't try to push her away; he didn't seem to have the energy to.

"You're going to regret it," House told her. "Everyone else has."

"I'm not everyone else, and I don't regret anything that has to do with you, House."

"I broke a mirror. Seven years bad luck."

"I'll take the risk," Cuddy replied and gave him a faint smile to let him know she didn't care about the damn mirror. It could be replaced. House couldn't.

He didn't return her smile. "Do you want to know why I broke the mirror?"

"Because you were upset?"

"Because I didn't like what I saw."

"What did you see?"

"Me." He pulled his hand away suddenly as if her touch burned him.

"House," Cuddy began as her heart sank, "don't talk like that."

"I hated what I saw--"

"House! Enough…that's enough. You don't have to say anything else. Just close your eyes and get some sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow."

"Sleep…like that will solve everything," he muttered with a flat chuckle as he began to sit up. At first Cuddy thought he was going to get up, but he just turned over until his back was facing her again. "Maybe luck will be on my side for once and I won't wake up."

Cuddy spooned up behind and began to run her fingers through his coarse hair. He tried to swat her hand away, but she stayed put, firmly resisting his attempts to make her go away. Eventually he gave up. Looking over at him, Cuddy noticed his eyes were closed and he seemed to be relaxing a bit. He didn't want her to go away. It was just the misery talking; it was all for show.

Feeling drained as if her batteries were wearing out, Cuddy dozed with him for a while. Her fingers were still entwined in his hair. Neither moved, laying there on top of the comforter, still in the clothes they wore to work.

A buzzing noise like a sluggish fly lazily circling the room. And she was cold. Why was she so cold? Good God, she was freezing and dog tired. Something was nagging at the back of her mind…Was it time to get up? What time is it anyway? What on earth…?

The buzzing wasn't buzzing, it was House snoring his way through a fitful sleep. Cuddy rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes and looked around the room. The bedroom was fine. Nothing out of place except House and his stubborn refusal to take off his clothes or shoes. The bathroom and living room were a wreck, covered with broken glass. House had had a meltdown and took it out on the lamp table and bathroom mirror. Sighing heavily, Cuddy got up and changed into some sweats and the well-worn sneakers she wore to run errands and do household chores. Time to assess the damage.

She decided to save the bathroom for last and made a beeline to the living room. The smell of booze filled the room. She opened a window, then began to clean up. Remarkably, the lamp itself and table survived, the only thing broken was the bulb. A quick trip to the hall closet brought her a new bulb and more light. She righted the coffee table. A large towel soaked up the puddle of scotch. As she wondered if a steam cleaner could get out the stain, Cuddy picked up the books and knick-knacks. The books were a little worse for the wear; one or two had torn pages that a few strips of scotch tape couldn't mend. The knick-knacks were beyond nothing but the trash. A few broken pieces still poked up from the carpet. She was leery of running the vacuum and waking House up, but it had to be done. Waking him up was the lesser evil of having one or both of them step on a piece and bleed all over the damn place. She didn't know if a steam cleaner could get blood out, either.

The bathroom looked like a war zone. The mirror House pulverized because he didn't like what he saw in it would remain where it was for the time being since she didn't feel like slicing herself to ribbons trying to take it down. Donning thick rubber kitchen gloves she shoveled the mirror pieces from the sink into the trash can. No carpeting on the floor made it rather easy to sweep up rest of the mess. The blood came right off with the cleaner she used on the bathtub.

Back in the bedroom there was no sign that the racket from the vacuum had woke up House. She toed off her sneakers, then shuffled her way over to him and began to unlace his shoes.

"You don't have to do that."

Cuddy looked up to see House looking right back.

"I don't have to do anything," she replied, pulling off one sneaker and starting work on the other. "But you'll be more comfortable with them off."

"Why were you vacuuming?"

"I was cleaning up the stuff you smashed."

"What happened to the scotch?"

"It spilled all over my carpet."

"Is there any left?"

"No."

"That's too bad. That stuff wasn't cheap. I'll pay for whatever I broke."

She pulled the other sneaker off, tossed it on the floor with its match, and said, "If that's what you want."

"I'll pay for another air mattress, too."

"I'll send you a bill."

"You're not angry with me." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, I'm not."

"I broke your things."

"They were just things, that's all. I can get new things."

"You got what you wanted out of me tonight," he said. "You saw me cry. Was it what you expected it to be?"

"No, it wasn't. Next time I'll think it over a little more carefully."

"The next time you see me cry?"

"The next time I push you too hard and you push back."

"An interesting way of putting it." House mused. "You're obviously not throwing me out." He looked down at his sneakers. "How much destruction of your personal property will that take, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Let's not find out the answer to that question, okay?"

"I agree, let's not. You probably won't know the answer to this question, but I'll ask it anyway," he began. "If the roles had been reversed, if Amber had called from the bar and I had gone to pick her up and wound up dying instead, would Wilson have left her standing in his vacant office as he walked away?"

Cuddy could feel herself shattering as the mirror had shattered. Blinking away tears, she replied, "You know I can't answer that."

"I know. I don't expect you to answer it." He frowned while watching her tears streak down her cheeks and drip onto the comforter. "I wonder if Wilson can answer it. I wonder if he's asked himself that question."


	11. Chapter 11

He said he was fine without any covers but she got the spare blanket back out anyway and draped it over him. Surprisingly he managed to mutter "Thanks" before all but burying himself underneath it; his bizarre way of trying to hide from the world. Cuddy climbed back into the bed and barely managed to cover herself with the one corner of the blanket House hadn't wrapped around himself.

"House, look at me."

"No."

"Look at me, House."

"I'm not going to."

Sometimes his stubbornness made her want to bang her head against the nearest wall, but now wasn't the time to let House see how exactly how frustrated she was with him. "Fine, just listen to me. Will you at least do that?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"No, you don't." She edged closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. She nearly had a heart attack when his hand appeared out of the folds of the blanket and took hers. "I'm your friend too, House. If you need someone to talk to, you can come to me. If you're lonely, you can come and see me."

"That's nice of you to say," he mumbled.

"I mean it."

"I'm sure you believe that. When the time comes we'll see how much you really mean it."

"Look at me, House."

"No."

"Why won't you look at me?"

"Because I'll cry again if I do," House replied sadly. "I've been through enough tonight, Cuddy. The least you can do is not put me through anything else until tomorrow."

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I won't."

"Thank you." He squeezed her hand back. "I loved them, you know."

"Loved who?"

"Stacy and Wilson. I loved them both."

"I know."

"Wilson was the best friend I ever had."

"I know he was," she said quietly. "Now get some sleep, House."

"There's one thing you can do for me. Just a little thing."

"What?"

"Do that thing you did earlier…run your fingers through my hair."

Cuddy laughed softly. "I can do that."

She kept doing just that long after he fell back asleep.

The lamp was still on and she didn't make a move to turn it off. Instead she took the opportunity to study the sleeping House. The last few days aside, and the one night they spent together years ago, he never let her get too close; there was usually a desk separating them, or his personal space that she tried not to violate. But now here he was, in her bed, barely a blanket between them. His mouth was open slightly, his breathing sounded a little muffled since his nose was still a bit stuffed up from crying. She studied his face: the near-constant scruffy beard, the crow's feet around his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth, the long lashes resting against his cheeks. The rough exterior that hid the genius underneath. A stark raving mad genius, but everyone who knew House had to admit-sometimes begrudgingly-that there was a method to his madness. She lay beside him and draped her arm over his waist, just as he had done with her.

* * *

"_Oh…God_."

Cuddy woke up and her bleary eyes managed to catch a tall figure limping out of the bedroom, followed by the sound of retching echoing from the down the hall.

"House?" Cuddy shuffled down the dark hallway to the bathroom and saw him crumpled by the toilet. "House, what is it?"

"Migraine…," he gasped. "Pills…where are my pills…I need them…"

Cuddy stumbled right back to the bedroom, smashing her big toe against the doorframe along the way. The all too familiar pill bottle, one of the many symbols of his addiction, was on the nightstand. Ignoring the pain and limping just as House did, she swiped the bottle and made her way back to the bathroom.

Without thinking she turned on the light. House's scream of "_Turn it off_!" nearly blew her eardrums out.

A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her down roughly, then wrenched the bottle out of her hand. A soft clack as the lid was flipped off, then clattered on the floor. Rattling as House tipped the bottle to his mouth and swallowed who knows how many pills.

Cuddy could barely make out his features in the faint light that made it from the bedroom. She reached out and wound up with a handful of his hair. It was drenched with sweat. House was positively soaked, as if he had just stepped out of the shower.

"Can you stand up?" she asked.

"Give me a minute," House panted. "Go turn out that light."

She did, then went back and sat with House until their eyes adjusted to the darkness. House leaned heavily on her as they both limped down the hallway. After what seemed like an eternity and a half they turned into the bedroom. He didn't bother to walk around to his side, he pretty much collapsed as soon as his legs bumped against the bed. Cuddy helped lift his bad leg up and pushed him towards the center of the bed since the last thing he needed was to roll over and fall off. She pulled the blanket over him and climbed back in.

His breathing was fast and shallow, his whole body tense. She curled up close to him and took the hand that had destroyed her mirror several hours earlier. He gripped her so hard she could feel the bones grinding together and the circulation being cut off.

"You need to relax, House," she said, nearly whispering so as to not make the migraine worse than it already was. "Take some deep breaths and relax."

"My head _hurts_," he cried. "I woke up and thought I was dying."

"You're fine; it's a migraine, that's all. Give the pills some time to work. Now you need to relax. Tensing yourself up is just going to make it hurt more."

"I _can't_…"

"Yes, you can. Take some deep breaths."

"I--"

"House, please listen to me. Take some deep breaths."

He grunted in protest and put up a feeble fight that was lost before it started, but finally he listened to her and took some solid deep breaths. The hand around hers loosened a tiny notch. Her fingers were no longer in danger of breaking.

"Feel better?"

"A little," he admitted, sounding almost disappointed that he couldn't argue with her anymore.

"That's good," she said, making sure he knew that she meant it. "Keep relaxing and let your mind wander. Don't focus on the pain; think of something nice."

"Am I supposed to find my happy place, Mommy?"

"House--"

"I'll be fine, Cuddy. The Vicodin is starting to kick in, the deep breathing is helping. I'll be fine."

_The migraine will be fine_, she thought. _What about you_?

She kept those thoughts to herself as she listened to his breathing become slow and steady and felt his grip loosen as he drifted off.

He was gone when she woke up. Judging from how neat and straight the blanket was, he had taken the time to drape it back over her before leaving.


	12. Chapter 12

It was two days before he showed up again; she came home to find him waiting in the driveway. She had been up to her ears in meetings and complaints about House from clinic patients. Maybe now he would chill out for a while. After she let him in he went straight for the kitchen and put some coffee on. He didn't look twice at the scotch stain on the carpet. The bathroom mirror had been replaced. She'd wait and see if he noticed. Or decided he hated himself again and smash it to smithereens. House got the cards out and taught her how to play double solitaire and refused to answer her questions until they had played three games, showing no mercy for the beginner and beating her all three times.

"Feeling okay?" _Both mentally and physically_, she thought, but decided that keeping the question vague was the best thing for both of them.

"I've been better."

"How's the head? Is the migraine gone?"

"My head is fine." House got up and poured himself another cup. He didn't go back to the table, he stood at the counter with his coffee.

"Why did you leave before I woke up the other morning?" Cuddy turned around in her chair to face him.

"I had some things to do."

"What things?"

"_Private_ things," he answered tersely. In other words, it was none of her business.

"Have you talked to Wilson?"

"Nope."

"Are you going to?"

"I will when I'm ready."

"When will that be?"

"When I say it is." House sounded irritated. He wasn't ready to talk about Wilson and his departure just yet.

"You can take a day or two off if you want."

"If I stay home all day I'll have too much time to think. If I'm at the hospital I can at least…do something."

Do something. House's way of saying that he needed work to distract him from the too fresh memory of his best friend's less than glorious exit. Cuddy wasn't too keen on the idea of House torturing the clinic patients or his underlings all day, but it was better than flipping out and locking himself in the bathroom again.

"Where have you been the last two days?"

"Catching up on my soaps."

"I thought you didn't want to stay home and think too much."

"I don't think about what's going on around me when I watch my soaps," House replied, raising an eyebrow. "That's why I watch them, so I can get out of my own head for a while."

"And I thought it was because you liked staring at the all the cleavage."

"I do that, too."

Cuddy shook her head. In a bizarre way, he was right. She had seen him when he watched those corny soaps: he was completely absorbed in the plotlines. He knew who was sleeping with who, who had an evil twin, who was getting divorced, where the actors lived, what other soaps the actors had been on, if any. He had hundreds of episodes on VHS and DVD. Everyone needed an escape every now and then, and if House wanted to get caught up in the lives of secret princesses and orphaned billionaires, then so be it. It wasn't much different than her love of fashion magazines, and House would be the first one to point that out.

"You want something to eat?" she offered as she got up and went to the fridge.

"I'm not hungry."

Cooking sounded like too much effort, so Cuddy got out the milk for some cereal. From the corner of her eye she could see House slowly limping his way across the kitchen until he was practically looming over her. His eyes were bright and awake, a stark contrast to the rest of his tired and wrinkled appearance.

"I owe you a few things," he said, then took her hand and stuffed a wad of crumpled money into it. 500 dollars after Cuddy straightened the individual bills out.

"For the stuff I broke," House explained.

"That stuff wasn't worth this--"

"As far as I'm concerned, it is. Take it. You deserve it for putting up with me, if nothing else. Replace your stuff and buy yourself something nice with the rest."

"I'm not taking this," she said, pushing the money back into his hands.

"Yes, you are." He crumpled the bills back up and tossed them into the living room.

Cuddy sighed. He was trying too hard to make up for what he did and she didn't like it. "House…_really_. I don't want your money."

"You're still getting it," he replied with a strange, diminutive smile that left Cuddy puzzled. Only a few days ago he was a complete emotional wreck and now he was up and alert and throwing money all over her home. She had seen him switch his moods and emotions like he was changing a shirt, but never to this degree. "I owe you something else," he went on, "but I'm not so sure you'll want it."

"What could you possibly owe me that isn't covered by the money you just threw into my living room?"

"The rest of what I owe you has nothing to do with money or price tags or broken mirrors."

"Well, what else is there?"

"Everything else."

"House…you're not making any sense," Cuddy said, getting exasperated at him and his secretiveness. "What else do you think you owe me?"

"Something I'm not sure you want or ever want…again."

"Again? I've had it before?"

"Yes, but I'm not so sure you'll want it now."

"Yes, you said that. How am I supposed to know if I'll want it or not if you won't give it to me? Why don't you just tell me what it is and let me be the judge."

"I can't tell you. I have to show you."

"Fine. Show me."

"You sure?"

House looked privately amused, leaving Cuddy to wonder if he was about to play some kind of practical joke on her.

Feeling brave, she said, "Yes, I'm sure."

"Positive?"

"Positive."

"You asked for it," House said as he took a step forward, put his hand behind her neck and crushed his mouth against hers.

It was so sudden, so out of nowhere, that for a moment all Cuddy to do was stand there and feel his mouth moving against her mouth and his beard burning her chin and his other hand reach around her waist and pull her closer. The next thing she knew she was kissing House back and the room was spinning and she was breathless and her lungs felt ready to burst but she didn't care. Needing to be closer to him she threw her arms around his neck and it still wasn't close enough but that was fine because he was still kissing her.

When he finally broke away she couldn't trust her legs to hold her up and held on to him to keep from falling. He was looking at her expectantly--waiting for her to slap him, to throw him out, to yell at him for being such a pig. Like wanting to sleep in her bed, House just couldn't come out say it.

After catching her breath, Cuddy grinned and said, "I certainly wouldn't mind you giving me what you owe me again."

House was more than happy to oblige.


	13. Chapter 13

He wanted to spend the rest of the evening in relative quiet, to forget the rules for just one night. He wanted to sit down and watch some television. Nothing more, nothing less.

"You look like you need to sit down," he said with a knowing smirk that was this close to being all-out smug.

But he was right; she was still giddy and light-headed. All she could do was put the milk back in the fridge and follow him out to the living room. Something on the floor caught her eye. It was the crumpled money, the absurd amount he insisted on forking over even though he didn't have to. She picked it up and put it on the lamp table, then joined House on the sofa. The second his arm was around her shoulder, she nearly melted.

"Don't worry, Cuddy, I'm not going to break anything."

"That's good to hear."

"What's on tonight?" he asked.

"Whatever you want to watch is fine."

Giving him control of the remote was a mistake as House wound up settling on one of those godawful wrestling shows. So she leaned into his warmth and replayed what happened in the kitchen in her head over and over again. His strange reluctance to kiss her, then his mouth against hers, pressing, demanding, the neediness of the kiss as if he couldn't wait any longer.

_I'm not so sure you'll want it._

She wanted it all right, more than she would ever admit to him or herself. And got seconds and thirds before the lack of oxygen finally caught up her. Breaking away from him before she wound up passing out, she had caught a quick glance and could have sworn his pupils were the size of dimes, leaving only a tiny ring of his electric blue irises. And they weren't that way because of the Vicodin. Neither was the high pink flush that covered his face and neck.

Now they were sitting together as if it was the most natural thing in the world, like something they did every night. Cuddling with him, his arm around her shoulder. Cuddling with House…she wouldn't have believed it if she weren't the one actually doing the cuddling. This was very interesting to say the least. Sure, it wasn't like he had stepped from the pages of a romance novel, all muscular and chiseled and ready to sweep her off her feet, but a quiet and cozy Gregory House was someone she definitely wanted to spend more time with.

But how long would the quiet and cozy House stick around? How long would House stick around, period? When would he decide he had shared enough of himself and his pain? When would he finally have enough of talking to her and completely shut down?

House himself probably didn't know the answers, and probably hadn't ask himself those questions yet. Cuddy didn't know the answers, either. She didn't want to know. All she knew as that she wanted him to stay.

_What?!_

And never leave.

Whoa…that was asking for way too much. Especially from a bitter, jaded misanthrope like House.

_Remember what happened the last time you pushed him too hard?_

All too clearly. But time goes in only one direction and she wanted to spend some more of that time with him.

Instead of thinking it over until her brain went haywire, Cuddy followed his lead and watched the stupid wrestling show and got out of her own head for a while. Though she would have preferred watching one of his silly soaps. At least those didn't have huge hulking steroid freaks clobbering each other with folding chairs.

After nearly an hour and a half, she heard House groan.

"Are you okay?" Cuddy asked, trying not to sound overly concerned.

"Migraine is trying to fight its way back," he grumbled as the Vicodin bottle materialized in his hand. He dry-swallowed two before finishing with, "I better call it a night."

Disappointed that he was going to bed so soon, she moved over so he could stand up and said, "If you want."

"I want," he said, grunting as he pulled himself up. "I need to find my happy place before my head explodes."

"You actually have one?"

"I do now."

Curious, Cuddy asked, "Where is it?"

"In your bed. Do me a favor and leave the lights off in there. Good night." He limped off down the hall without looking back.

She sat there for a while, musing over what he had said. So…House did like her. He certainly liked sleeping in her bed. He liked her company. Maybe he would stick around for a while.

_But how long is a while?_

_We'll see, won't we?_

A grumbling from her stomach interrupted her thoughts; she never did eat any dinner. Cuddy got up, stuff the money he gave her into her purse, then headed for the kitchen, pausing to take a look down the hall. It was too dark to see anything, but she knew House had more than likely shut the bedroom door. Ever mindful, even though it wouldn't make any difference, she shut off the living rooms as she walked into the kitchen. A bowl of cereal, then a quick shower before she hit the hay. There was still a load of clothes in the dryer, including a few nightshirts, so she didn't have to risk waking him up to look for something to sleep in. The thought of sleeping next to him brought a smile to her face.

* * *

His slow, steady breathing whispered through the air as she stepped into the bedroom. As requested she had kept the lights off while carefully shuffling her way to the bed, following the sound his breathes. She climbed into bed, mindful of making any noise and settled in. His back was to her; all she could see was dim outline. She turned over and was soon drifting off.

In her dream House was holding her, planting soft kisses on her neck and shoulder that tickled her and she couldn't help but giggle. It felt so good and so right to be in his warm embrace. She felt safe. She felt loved. _Loved_? Could House love her? Could she love him? Judging from how good she felt with his arms around her it was a very distinct possibility that she could. More kisses as his beard scratched at her skin like sandpaper. What was with all the kisses and attention, anyway? Not that she minded, except…except…

It wasn't a dream.

"House?" Cuddy murmured. She tried to turn over, but couldn't since he appeared to taking his half out of her half.

"Go back to sleep," he replied softly, smoothing the blankets down.

He was pressed up against her; that's why she was so warm. Almost too warm, but she was too tired to argue. She felt his chin rest in the crook of her neck.

She asked, "You were never asleep, were you?"

"I was, actually. I woke up a while ago and decided I wanted to be closer to you."

"All you had to do was ask."

"You were asleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay."

"Go back to sleep, Cuddy."

She fell asleep in his arms. This time it wasn't a dream.


	14. Chapter 14

Sometime during the night he had drifted back over to his side of the bed. He was on his back, his head listing away from her. His eyes twitched under the closed lids. At least he was still there. She thought for sure he would be gone when she woke up and was more than happy to see she was wrong. She was also glad when he didn't throw too much of a fit when the alarm began to screech and calmed him down with an offer of a nice big breakfast.

Her back was to him as she cracked the eggs into the pan, but she knew he was watching her every move. He was waiting for her to say something. He was trying to get a reaction out of her. For what reason she didn't know. Probably just to see if he could, that was the House thing to do. But she held her silence as she flipped the eggs, then got out the syrup for the waffles he wanted. Their blueberry fragrance soon filled the kitchen and made her mouth water like a Pavlovian dog.

She brought their meals to the table and sat down. Neither of them had said a word since she asked him how he wanted his eggs cooked. He smiled at her over his coffee cup.

"What?" Cuddy finally had to ask.

"You let me watch television last night," he said as if he expected to be punished for it.

"So?" she puzzled. All he could think about was watching television last night?

"You let me break the rules. Why?"

"You asked if you could."

"Now tell me the real reason."

"You didn't necessarily break the rules. We did talk for a while before that, remember?"

"We did more than talk," he noted.

A-ha, now he was getting down to the nitty-gritty. "That we did." Cuddy could feel the blush creeping up her neck.

"You haven't said anything about it," House said before digging into his breakfast. "Or were you planning on having a deep philosophical discussing about the workout regimes of professional wrestlers this morning?"

"I was going to say something, I just haven't got around to it."

"Really?" He smirked in her general direction. "So say something now that the subject has been brought up."

Cuddy stared into her plate and said, "It was…nice."

"Nice?" House muttered, his tone more than indicating that he didn't believe. "All you can say is _nice_? Puppies and kittens are _nice_. A traffic cop letting you go without a speeding ticket is _nice_. Finding a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk is _nice_. C'mon, Cuddy, you can do better than that."

"What would be better, House?"

"The truth, for one thing."

"Truth?"

House reached over and tilted up her chin until they were eye to eye. "The truth is-and not to blow my own horn here-is that last night I gave you the best goddamn kiss you've had in _eons_."

"Really," she replied nonchalantly, batting his hand away. He was right, but that was beside the point. If he was in the mood to play, she may as well go along for the ride. He was going to bring her along anyway, whether she was packed or not.

"Really," he stated matter-of-factly. "So when you swallowed my tonsils that was just your polite way of saying 'I'm glad you're not home watching those stupid soaps'."

"And when you deprived me of oxygen that was your way of saying 'I'm sorry for throwing your books all over the place'."

"I figured you deserved more than a simple 'sorry'. And you loved every second of it. Besides, I needed to get your attention somehow."

Cuddy nearly dropped her fork. "Attention for what?"

"You like me, I like you," he began as he drowned his waffles in syrup. "I decided last night was a good time to let you know how much I like you."

"So…how much do you like me?" she asked, trying not to fall out of her chair.

"I like you a lot," he answered with complete sincerity. "Since you didn't slap me after I kissed you, didn't make me sleep on your dead air mattress after I snuggled with you, and you went out of your way to cook me a nice breakfast this morning, I have to say that the feeling must be mutual."

"It is."

"How much do you like me, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I like you very much."

"I see." House appeared to be pleased with her answer. "How much is very much?"

"I can't tell you," she said with a knowing grin. "I'll have to show you later."

"I look forward to it," House said as he finished his waffles.

* * *

She was standing outside Wilson's place, trying to get the nerve to knock on the door, wondering if she even should. What was going on between House and Wilson was none of her business, she should stay out of it. But if House wasn't ready to confront Wilson just yet, _someone _should give Wilson an idea of what House was going through since his best friend left him alone in an empty office.

House was tied up with a new case and didn't know she was there. She knew Wilson would accuse her of being sent by House to make a plea on his behalf; she planned to set the record straight. Cuddy planned on giving Wilson a blow-by-blow description of the drunk, bitter, angry House that had stumbled into the coffee house, made that way because his so-called best friend yanked the rug right out from under him. She was going to tell Wilson about the drinking, the yelling, the meltdown, the crying. Rub his nose it. Maybe ask him if he would have walked away from Amber.

Now or never. She pounded on the door and waited. No answer. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. No light shined through the peephole. She pounded again. Nothing. Wilson wasn't home. Not wanting to leave a note or give any sign that she had been there, Cuddy left.

House was waiting for her in the driveway when she got home.

"How long have you been waiting?" Cuddy asked as she got out of the car.

"I just got here. Where have you been?"

"Running errands," she lied.

"What kind of errands require a stop at Wilson's new place? I saw your car there when I was driving by to see if he was home."

She felt her mouth go dry as the Sahara Desert. "I wanted to see how he was doing."

"Or tell him what a jackass he's being to me? It's supposed to be the other way around, just like nature intended."

"That, too." She smiled weakly.

"The world isn't big enough two jackasses like me."

"If you say so."

"I know so, and I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Cuddy."

"I didn't fight anything. Wilson wasn't home," she said, shutting the car door.

"Is that so?" House was skeptical.

"He wasn't home."

"Figures." House sounded more irritated at Wilson not being home than Cuddy going to confront him.

"Don't be mad at me, House," she pleaded.

"I'm not mad at you."

"I wanted Wilson to--"

He took her arm and said, "I'm not mad at you. It's getting cold. Let's go inside and find out if we still like each other."


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: This is the last chapter. A big wonderful thanks to all my fantabulous readers. You guys are the best!_

* * *

"Were you going to talk to Wilson? Is that what you were doing when you saw my car?" Cuddy asked as she put some coffee on, then sat down at the table.

House got out the cards and joined her. "Yeah. I was hoping to get a few words in before he slammed the door in my face. But since he wasn't home all I would've got was the door in my face. In a weird way you saved me some trouble." He took off the rubber band. "Wanna play?"

She shook her head and watched him shuffle the deck, then deal a hand of solitaire. "What were you going to say to him?"

"The usual--How's it going? Can I come in and join your pity party? Then I was going to stand there and listen to him tell me how miserable he is and what an unfeeling selfish bastard I am, then watch him slam the door in my face. But hey, at least I would get to see him."

"You miss him," Cuddy stated.

"Damn right I do." The truth of that declaration echoed off the walls.

"How did you feel when he left you standing in his office?" Cuddy had a feeling he would finally answer that question.

"Like I had just lost my best friend in the world." A hint of sadness tinged his words as House turned over an ace and set it aside. "It wasn't a very nice feeling, but you and your broken mirror already know that."

Cuddy got up and poured two giant mugs of coffee. "Why would you go see him after he did that to you?"

"Because he knows as well as I do that the last thing I'm going to do is just sit on my ass and let him walk away."

That was the real Gregory House talking, not the broken man crying in her bathroom a few days earlier. Cuddy tried not to break into an idiotic grin as she brought the mugs to the table. "Do you think he'd even the open the door for you?"

"He would so he could yell at me to get lost."

"That wouldn't bother you? That all he would do is tell you to go away?" Cuddy asked, taking a sip of her hot drink.

"It would, but getting him to open the door to begin with is as good a place to start as any."

"What if he won't open the door?"

House took a gulp of coffee before answering, "I'll make him open the door. This isn't over until I say it is."

"Wilson won't see it that way."

"I don't give a damn how he sees it," House replied tersely, turning over black nine and red three. "He has to go home sometime, and I'm going to be there waiting for him when he does. I am not going to just sit here and let him turn his back on me for no reason."

"I didn't think you would," Cuddy said. "I wouldn't expect any less from you. But where does that leave us?"

"Playing solitaire in the kitchen."

"House--"

"I was waiting for you to come home, Cuddy. _You_, not Wilson." He paused from looking through the cards and met her eyes. "What does that tell you?"

"That you wanted to see me."

"Exactly. I wanted to see you now and my ambushing of Wilson can wait until later. My short term memory may not be what it once was, but don't think for one nanosecond that I've forgotten what happened last night."

"Good, because I'm not going to let you," she said coyly.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," he replied dryly, turning back to his game. "Where's the money I gave you?"

"In my purse."

"You haven't spent it yet? And you call yourself a woman."

"I haven't had a chance," Cuddy explained. "Between all the hours at the hospital and all the hours with you, I'm lucky I get to sit down."

"You're sitting down now," House pointed out, "and it's still pretty early. After we're done talking here, what shall we do next?"

Cuddy mulled it over for a minute. "What would you like to do, House?"

"We can cuddle on the couch again."

"We can do that later." Cuddy took another sip. "When you're done with that game, deal me in."

"Will do," House said, turning over a red king. "I'm going to need a shoulder to cry on when Wilson tells me to go away."

"You can cry on my shoulder all you want." Cuddy replied, cradling her mug of coffee as if her hands were freezing. "Whenever you do, just say so."

"That's very kind of you. How come you're not offering Wilson your shoulder?"

"He already has more than a few shoulders at his disposal," she offered. "Plus he's cried on my shoulder a few times already. Now it's your turn, and right now you need me more than Wilson does."

"Do I?" House sounded more amused than anything. He turned over a black ten and placed it on a red jack.

"You came to me because you knew I would listen to whatever you had to say. You came to me because you needed someone to talk to. You came to me because you were lonely. You came to me because you like me and you've always liked me, haven't you?" Cuddy tilted her head and gave him a diminutive smile.

"You could say that."

"And I did." She put down her mug, then got up from the chair and stood over House. He pretended not to notice and continued to play his card game. "I have something to show you, House."

"Can't it wait?"

"No." She reached over and cupped his chin, turning his head until they were facing each other. She leaned in and kissed him deeply; his dark and rich taste running down her throat like honey. There was a soft fluttering and Cuddy dimly realized it was the cards spilling from his hands and scattering all over the table. His arms encircled her waist and pulled her closer as if he felt she had been too far away. All Cuddy could feel was him; his mouth on hers, his arms around her, his breath quickening. But there wasn't enough of House touching her. She wanted more, a lot more.

After she broke the kiss, she asked, "You don't want to play cards all night, do you?"

"Not anymore." His pupils were the size of marbles. "Neither do you, apparently."

"Shall we play something else?"

"Please."

"Come on, then."

She held out her hand and House took it without hesitation. He didn't let go as she led him down the hall.

--The End.


End file.
